Her fingers cup the round jiggle of a breast and she gets a soft snort of laughter back from a moan-dry throat. There's something satisfying about the way the heavy flesh fits in the palm of her hand and the way her upward stroking thumb can reach the hardening nipple without effort.
Sam's fingers have closed around a rifle today; squeezed a trigger, sent bullets burrowing into bodies.
Her hand rests against Janet's body, scrubbed clean of guilt.
The blood edging each nail is seeping out again from torn cuticles, soap-stung and raw.
She lifts it higher to waiting lips.
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